‘What the hell are you doing!’

My head snaps up.

Cynthia is framed in the doorway, her hands on the woodwork, her eyes cold.

Suddenly I’m eight again. Caught sneaking cold pizza after she fell asleep.

‘You … you said it was OK? Photos for a project?’

Momentary confusion. A whiskey-soaked softening.

‘Did I?’

I nod.

‘Take what you want and go, I’m too tired for this.’

She sways in the doorway, watching.

I take a handful and close the box.

At home, on autopilot, Mark asks me how it went with Dr Kinsella. If he ever looks her up online, he’ll find two therapists called Kinsella in Dublin; one based, as it happens, not far from Woodbine Street. But to date, he never has. Why would he, I suppose. Why would any man suspect his wife of lying about years of therapy? I tell him it went well, just as I always do, and not long after, he says he’s going to bed. As soon as he’s gone, I begin to sift through the photos, spreading them out on the living room floor. Memories swarm as I look at them. Me, lying on the carpet, my arms wishboned behind my head, in a pose my mother made me do for what felt like hours. Me, at around eight or nine, wearing one of her dresses and a pair of her battered ankle boots. My mother, gazing at herself in the mirror. The huge grey cat I used to feed, before it went back to its owner. And then, there she is. Lila.

It’s a black-and-white photo, taken in her bedroom. Lila is lying on her narrow bed, her chin resting on her hands, her face visible in side-profile as she stares straight ahead at something out of shot. I examine her face. She might have been four by then, though I never remember her having a birthday. She’s smiling but looks sad. Jesus, what a life she had. Locked in that room whenever Cynthia went out. Hidden in a way that I should have questioned at the time. And then all too soon, she was gone. Familiar guilt rises up and threatens to overwhelm me, but this is not the time for self-indulgent wallowing.

My Mac is still open on the tab with Lily’s photo. I hold Lila’s photo against it.

Is it her? Some of the baby chubbiness has gone from her cheeks, though it may be due to the pose, and I can only see her in side-profile. The dimple is still there. Her hair is longer. Maybe darker too, or perhaps it just looks like that in a black-and-white photograph. I try to age Lily in my imagination and yes, it’s possible she’s Lila. There’s still a seed of doubt … but every day it’s getting smaller.

39

July 1985

ON MONDAY 1 JULY, Della’s voice seared through the last fragments of Fran’s sleep long before she was ready to get up.

‘Aren’t you babysitting for Mary at nine?’